fight (ever so slowly i am losing mine)
by WordAddict618
Summary: "For most people in District Eleven, the Games start on Reaping Day. Not for Esmeralda." It's been years since the last District Eleven Victor, but Esmeralda still tries.


**A/N: Contains non-explicit sexual content that isn't exactly non-consensual, but exists within a system that commodifies people for their bodies and doesn't really care what they think about it.**

* * *

Esmeralda wakes up alone. It's a blessing she takes time to savour before getting out of bed. These few moments, before she chooses her clothes and pads to the shower are utterly and completely hers, and she will take the time to enjoy them. But, all too soon, the sun rises fully and the birds start chirping outside her window and Esmeralda has to get up.

She takes a longer shower than normal; the Capitol can't complain since the Games are coming up and they'll have her in person for the next three months. For most people in District Eleven, the Games start on Reaping Day. Not for Esmeralda. Though she's from one of the outlying districts, she has more alike with the Career Victors than she would like to admit, and part of that is this pre-Games preparation she takes part in.

Dressing, Esmeralda heads for the door and her checklist of duties. Her footsteps echo in the high vaulted ceilings of her house. It used to feel like sanctuary, the high roof and elaborate windows so different from her cramped, dirty Games. Now, it's just a different sort of prison. At least no one else lives with her, the jangle of bells on her skirt the only sound as she makes her way outside. It's not quite true solitude, but she'll take what she can get.

"Down, boy," she laughs, Djali butting her legs when she steps outside. She scratches behind his ears and tries to enjoy the moment and not think about what she's on her way to do, not think about why she hasn't succeeded once in bringing a tribute out of the Arena when she can keep a dumb goat alive.

Said dumb goat bleats like he can hear her thoughts and Esmeralda pats him on the head. "You know I didn't mean it," she reassures him. Opening the gate, she lets him out of her front yard before eheading down the hill to the train station. Djali can stuff himself on all the grass that grows in the rest of the Victors Village while she's gone; there's no one else to care, and that way the district doesn't have to pay for upkeep.

* * *

There's a woman from the Capitol waiting for her at the train station. Personal assistant was her official title, but Esmeralda knows it's more like babysitter. There's a long ride from Eleven to the Capitol and they can't have her trying to run away again. She takes the offered list of names politely as possible, suppressing the urge to snatch them and throw them out the window. For the tributes, she reminds herself. This will earn them food or water or other things in the Arena, precious gifts that could bring them out alive. She tries to forget that in years of making these trips she's never fulfilled that promise. For the tributes, she reminds herself reading the first name on the list.

**Claude Frollo, Minister of Justice.**

* * *

He asks for her every year, and – Esmeralda knows from a couple of well-placed sources – no one else. And there are others. Esmeralda knows it isn't the novelty of her being the only one from Eleven that attracts him, just like it isn't about her "exotic body" or "striking features" that she's had others coo over. No, this is personal.

"It's your own fault, you know," he says when he opens his door. "If you weren't such a," he leans close to her and inhales, smelling her hair, "temptress."

Esmeralda doesn't answer as he leads her to his bedroom. She isn't stupid, she knows his words are excuses. "What do you want me to do?" she asks instead, lowering her gaze and looking up at him through her lashes like she knows he likes. "Master."

Frollo tries to hide the way his breath hitches at the title. He orders her to her knees, taking control the way he always does. Esmeralda lets her mind wander, calculating how many days of life this could buy her tributes, ignoring his constant reminders that this was all because of what she had done that first night.

* * *

It's a short first list when all is said and done, but Esmeralda still takes a shower when she returns to her Capitol apartment. She makes it short but still turns her body to all the right angles, emerging feeling no cleaner than when she entered. Still, she tells herself for the next days, weeks, months, on Reaping Day it will be worth it.

* * *

It almost isn't. Esmeralda stares out across the sea of faces in the square, seeing the usual mix of despondence and anger. The escort waltzes over to the bowls, taking her usual time to pull two names. Esmeralda smooths her skirts, barely hiding her frustration. Everyone knows what will happen – there's no need to draw it out.

A girl's name is called, and Esmeralda tries to bury the thoughts of dead, dead, she doesn't care enough, dead, when she's called. Her face is drawn, her body is skinny, and she stands on the platform trying and failing not to cry. She knows she's just been handed a death sentence. Esmeralda tries not to think, but it doesn't work. She can do a lot, but she can't help someone who isn't willing to fight.

The escort pulls a slip of paper from the bowl of boy's names, and Esmeralda readies herself for another year of disappointment and anger and tears, another year of staring at two gravestones helplessly.

"I volunteer!"

The escort looks up in surprise, not even having read the name. The crowd parts for the boy who walks confidently to the stage, head held high, and Esmeralda begins to wonder if it was all worth it after all.

"What's your name?" the escort asks.

"Mowgli," the boy answers. He stares at the camera with a solid stance and the promise of blood in his eyes.

Hope is a dangerous thing and Esmeralda knows it, but she can't help wondering if she's finally going to be able to bring one home.


End file.
